Please be advised that this is a self-indulgent post, meant to chronicle the life of a good dog. It is long. It contains many pictures. You have been warned.

We had to say goodbye to Indy, Adventure Dog last Friday morning. He was 8 years old, and we’d only had him for 16 months or so. It’s hard to believe he’s gone – I don’t want to believe he’s gone. For such a little guy, he sure left a mighty hole in my heart.

His previous owner couldn’t keep him, and the day that we first learned about him is the same day that we welcomed him into our house and our hearts. Our dog Sophie, who we’ve had since she was a puppy, is also a rescue dog. She’s about to turn 11, and we’d wanted to get her a companion for quite awhile, but the “right” dog never came along. Until Indy.

He was the sweetest dog I’ve ever known. He was patient, and quiet, and content to be in the background until you had time to acknowledge him. I’d often look up from doing something to find him silently watching me with his gentle eyes. Although he didn’t love loud noises, he’d often “help” me vacuum by following me through the house and simply being present as I cleaned. I referred to him as my silent Greek chorus of one. Sophie (who, let’s be honest, can be a little on the jealous side) often barked at him as a not-so-subtle reminder of who was the boss. And Indy didn’t care at all. He’d just sit there, content to be nearby. I’d often remind Sophie, “You know, there’s enough love for both of you.” And there was.

We often referred to him as spatially challenged. He’d try to give you a paw and accidentally swat you in the nose, or the eye. When you’d toss him a gummy bear (his favorite snack), he’d invariably open his mouth (or close it) at exactly the wrong time. Peanuts, crackers, biscuits would bounce off of his head. If you gave him a treat from your hand, though, he take it so gently you barely felt it. He could be a restless sleeper. His paws would race, and when he snored he sounded like Curly from the Three Stooges – whoop whoop whoop whoo whoo.

I miss the feeling of him curled behind my legs when I’m sleeping. When we first got him, he didn’t want to get up on the bed. We’d wake up in the middle of the night looking for him, only to find him all alone on his dog bed in the office. We’d entice him back up to the bedroom – happily he figured it out quickly. After that, he’d always be on the bed, whether it was time to sleep or just keeping one of us company. He’d lay there quietly, watching or snoozing in the sunshine.

He’d often wake me up by just staring into my face, softly breathing. I’d wake up, and he’d look hopeful – is it time to get up yet? Sometimes it wasn’t, and he’d wander back down to the foot of the bed. Sometimes he simply couldn’t contain himself, and I’d feel his tail wagging through the mattress. I’d look at him, he’d stop, and then whump whump whump it would start again. When the time came to get up, he’d jump from the bed and bounce into the hallway, front end down, back end up, tail wagging so hard you could barely see it, then zoom down the stairs like he just couldn’t WAIT for the day to start.

He rarely barked, but when he did, he’d give his gruff little woof, look back over his shoulder, tail wagging with delight as if to say, “Did you hear THAT?!”

He was the happiest dog I’ve ever known. Just being around him filled me with a simple joy. He could amuse himself playing with a favorite toy, shaking it and flinging it only to pounce on it then shake it some more. Indy LOVED sticks, could reduce even a big one into tiny pieces in a matter of minutes. Sophie enjoyed barking at Indy while he was playing, so much so that she earned herself the nickname of “the fun police”.

Indy was a talker. When he yawned, sometimes, he’d make a noise halfway through and end up sounding like Axl Rose – AH-oooh! He’d make little grunts and groans. He loved to wiggle – there were times when we had to moderate his wiggling, in fact. He’d stretch out on the carpet and drag himself forward with his front paws – a position that we laughingly referred to as “junk rubbing”. He’d often put his front right paw on your arm, just set it there and look at you.

He loved rolling in the grass in the backyard. When we first got him, he’d go outside, do his business as fast as possible then race back to the door. As he got to know us, he’d spend time rolling in the grass, zipping around in dizzying laps or just laying in the sunshine.

Whenever Sophie would race outside after a squirrel, Indy would fly after her. Since he was faster than she was, he’d invariably crash right into her butt, at which point she’d whirl around and bark at him. He was just learning what a squirrel was, and that it was “the enemy”. Whenever he came back inside – rain or shine – he’d sit on his little rug by his favorite book shelf and wait for you to dry his paws. He LOVED having his paws dried. We’d fuss over his paws even if they were dry as dust, asking, “Whoa, Indy, were you swimming out there or what? How did your paws get so wet?” And he’d sit there, grinning and wagging.

When you were sitting on the couch, he’d come up and lean his head on your knee, even though most of the time it meant that his head was bent almost sideways. Sometimes he’d lay down at your feet and, often as not, lay his head across a foot, or simply lay there touching you.

We’d often think he was going to break his tail with his wagging, or that his butt was going to lift off the ground. Thump thump thump thump. You could feel it through the house.

His favorite spots were his dog beds in the office, under my desk, the living room by the bookshelf, the sofa or the window, and the bedroom upstairs. He’d just learned to get up on the couch, earning him the new nickname Mister Couch. Prior to that he’d pull this hysterical move where he’d jump up with front legs only, back legs firmly on the ground. Once he jumped into the back of the mini-van – he was so worried we were going to leave him home – slammed into the back of the rear seat and collapsed into a boneless heap on top of a cooler, tail wagging feebly to reassure us that he was okay. Indy dog made me smile each and every day, and laugh out loud in delight more times than I can count. There will never be another Indy.

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When his end came, it came FAST. We’d expected to have years with him, you see. He was only 8, we took great care of him, and we loved him beyond all reason. But he got cancer, a horrible, ugly, malignant sarcoma that took him from us so fast that it’s almost a blur.

I don’t like to think about how long he might’ve lived with symptoms that we couldn’t see. He was the bravest dog, and so courageous that it wouldn’t surprise me to know that it was for longer than I can even imagine. And that breaks my heart.

This is a dog, mind you, who once shredded the skin off the top of his own nose trying to get outside to go to the bathroom one day when we were at work. He ALWAYS wanted to be a good dog, and you know what? He was. He was the best dog.

We took him to the vet’s two weeks ago because he’d been throwing up. Our vet gave us medicine to help his digestion and relax his tummy, and it worked for a few days. That Thursday I took him back in because he’d thrown up twice the night before, and gave the vet permission to do exploratory surgery because the x-rays still looked strange. The vet found telescoping bowels, and in the section he was forced to remove, he found a gigantic, tennis ball sized mass. He told us how lucky we were – the mass was contained, there were no tumors in the area, and the mass had sealed his bowel, so waiting even a short time would’ve meant necrotic death for his bowels and thus death for him. Our vet sent it to be biopsied.

Indy looked like he was completely on the mend, all the way up until Tuesday, when he didn’t want to eat again. I figured maybe it was a little set-back – I mean, up until then he’d been doing amazingly well, even bouncing around a little (although we tried to limit that because we were afraid of him messing up his stitches).

Wednesday morning I woke up to find him staring at me in bed. It would be the last time he was able to be on the bed.

I fussed over him – I was always fussing over him, calling him a Silly Old Man, or Mister Bounce, or Indy Dog, or Littlest Man and petting him or hugging him or giving him kisses. You have no idea how thankful I am for that, although, of course, you always feel like you could have done more.

How could I possibly know that we had to fit that much love into such a short time?

I let him out back, and he tried to go to the bathroom then staggered to the side, collapsing in his favorite spot in the yard, right in the middle of three trees. He lay there, head high, a thousand yard stare gazing into the forest behind the house. I thought he was dying – it turned out he was dying – and somehow I managed to get him into the car and to the vet’s.

They opened him up a second time. You see, sometimes when they remove a mass that large – one that we discovered on that day was so incredibly malignant – it opens the floodgates and let’s the cancer take off. My husband and I made the difficult decision that if the vet found Indy riddled with cancer when he went back in, we didn’t want to wake poor Indy back up. We spent every second in that room with him – from the time we got there until they took him into surgery again – telling him want a good dog he was, how much we loved him, and that if it was his time to go, he should go and not worry about us.

He made it through this second surgery. It turned out the sutures had torn and a small amount of toxins had been seeping out. What great news! We could recover from this, although it wouldn’t be easy. We were over the moon! No sign of cancer.

Indy looked tired but happy when we picked him up Wednesday night. His tail was wagging, he went into his favorite bed in the office and slept peacefully. He wouldn’t eat, though.

I slept downstairs with him, me on the couch, him on the floor next to the couch. My hand was resting on his back each time I woke up.

I took him into the vet on Thursday for monitoring, and we were told we could pick him up at 7. He didn’t look as great, but I thought, you know, he’s been through a LOT, poor little guy. You’ve gotta be patient.

I don’t want to write much about Thursday night, except to say that even though it was sheerest torment to see what my poor dog was enduring, his ears were alert and he wagged his tail every time he saw one of us.

He wagged his tail. Do you have any idea what kind of unconditional love makes you wag your tail when you are going through that kind of pain? It was like he knew the end was racing towards him, and he was happy just to be spending his final moments with us.

He couldn’t walk, in the end. We had to carry him on a folding table to the van to get him back to the vet’s. They could barely stabilize him long enough for us to say goodbye. The cancer had gotten him, you see. It was killing him from the inside out. His systems were failing. When the vet told us – and I’d been hoping against hope that there was something he could do, anything – I felt like someone had reached into my chest and ripped out my heart. Then they’d crushed it, and set it on fire and scattered the ashes into a strong, cold wind.

Saying goodbye to my littlest guy, holding him and hugging him and kissing him and petting him while he slipped away, was agonizing, but something we had to do. We HAD to be there with him at the end.

He was a loyal dog, a sweet dog, a gentle dog. Indy was full of love – he was overflowing with unconditional love, no strings attached. He existed to be near you, and to love you, and to be happy.

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We could all learn a lot from Indy dog. Keep wagging until the very end. Be happy. Live in the moment. Give love with no strings attached. Be optimistic. Try new things. Have fun. Race around the yard. Be open to love, because you never know where you’re going to find it.

I had a hard time dealing with losing him. I know that life isn’t fair – I’ve known this for a long time – but watching a sweet, innocent, loving dog meet such a fast and nasty end shook me to my core. We were so unbelievably lucky to have him in our lives – far, far luckier than I ever deserved – but I can’t help but feel that we were robbed. That we should’ve had more time with him – that we deserved it and he deserved it.

I look around this home and I realize how empty it feels without Indy here. I look for him in his favorite places. I think that he’s just out of sight, that if I call his name, he’ll come racing to my side to cheer me or comfort me or just be there. I see his muddy pawprints on the folding table we used as a ramp for him to get into the car without straining his stitches. I see the padded basket that we used just once to raise him into the car. I see his soccer ball sitting, abandoned, in the middle of the backyard and it makes me cry, every single time. I stumble on his favorite toy, or glimpse his empty bowls. I look up at dinner time, straining to see his one eye peeking at me from the other side of my husband’s chair. I walk out of the bathroom and swear that I see him, just for a moment, laying on the bed, patiently waiting for a look, or a word, or a pat. I refuse to wash a sweater covered with his hair. I carefully listen, hoping to hear his tail thumping against the wall just outside the kitchen doorway, waiting for a gummy bear.

It took about a day for Sophie to realize that her little brother wasn’t coming home. They were never really peas and carrots, but I can tell that Sophie misses the hell out of him. She has far too much yard to patrol now, and the squirrels are getting bold. There’s no back up to help remind us that it’s food time. There’s no one to bark at during playtime. She’s stuck trying to cheer us up all alone.

I don’t know that I’ll ever entirely get over the loss, but then I think, you know what? That’s okay. He deserves to be remembered, and you have to take the good with the bad, right? There’s one thing I do know. There are so many dogs out there – sad, lonely, abandoned, scared – that need a forever home, just like our Indy dog did. I also know that I’m going to miss out big time if I let this stop me from getting another dog. It would be the worst insult to Indy’s memory that I can think of if I didn’t share my life and love with another dog in need. It will take time, though, for the pain to pass and the healing to start.

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54 responses to “Remembering Indy”

This is one of the most beuatiful and poignant recollections I have ever read about the most wonderful creatures who, as furry angels, shower us with more love than our minds and hearts can even fathom. We are such kindred spirits, Juan and Mike. We, too, have always had rescues who somehow have seemed to rescue US more than we have rescued them. Their sweet smiles and wagging tails at the end of a tough day immediately melt away whatever was troubling us. They know so much, sense so much, and their happiness and playfulness is completely contagious. We can’t wait for you to meet Roxie Girl. Like Indy, one of her passions is chasing sticks, and she loves to add each additional one to the collection in her mouth. We have lovingly nicknamed her “Mulch Mouth”. 🙂 Mom always said that she was not a dog, but a real person by the look in her eyes! She was her best friend, and believe me, the feeling was mutual. Her dying wish was, “Please take care of my dog” to not one, but many of us, and we are trying to find her just the right home. We hope she is the right girl for you, and that she will also be “Sophie’s Choice”. See you tomorrow! P.S. We won’t tell her about the Gummy Bears yet. She may not let you out of her sight!!

Thanks so much for your kind words. We were truly fortunate to have Indy dog – he was so incredibly big-hearted – we still miss our littlest waggy man each and every day. We’re looking forward to meeting Roxie – she sounds lovely! And my heart aches for her, poor dear – she must be so confused. I can only imagine the pressure of finding just the right home for your mom’s dog. Here’s hoping Sophie is agreeable (or as agreeable as Sophie gets, anyway – lol). And if things don’t work out for some reason, we will absolutely help to spread the word. We’ll keep our fingers crossed, though. And thanks again! – Mickey

I have two dogs. One is Abbie and she is 14 and in perfect health; it’s hard to know she’s that old except that she sleeps a lot. I love her to death but Abbie has had the fortune of never knowing anything but love from that first day we got her til now. I’ve yelled at her maybe a dozen times in those years and maybe popped her once for peeing on the carpet right in front of me! She has had a good life with a lot of love and she is independent like a cat; only coming when she feels like it.

My other dog is a part timer. My daughter rescued her from the local shelter. They weren’t supposed to let her be adopted as it turns out but she begged and said she would watch for signs of her snapping at people. When my daughter was in flux with living arrangements, Charlotte came to live with me and even now, she often visits and spends the night.

She reminds me of your beloved Indy. She watches my every move…as if always saying, ‘Please love me.’ I can not move from room to room without her following me. When she first came to live here for a year and a half; she had snapped at a couple of people and I was worried. But what Charlotte needed and had never had was constant love and learning that we humans actually can be trusted. That a hand coming towards you is not a sign you will be hurt but that you will be loved. So much of how you described your dog reminds me of Char and this I just know to be true. Dogs that are ‘rescued’ with the love you gave your dog? They know; they love differently and deeper. You were lucky to have had that sweet dog but I will tell you this…Indy was even luckier to have had you. Take good care and I pray for the day to come soon with the memories will be less painful and are just ones that will fill you with joy.

Barbara, I can’t thank you enough for stopping by and for sharing your stories of Abbie and Charlotte. They absolutely remind me of Sophie dog (who we’ve had since we rescued her at 6 months of age) and Indy.

We were laughing about Sophie earlier today, telling someone how she listens when she wants to – while she is very protective of us (and loves having her belly rubbed, and snoozing on the sofa), she definitely reminds us of a cat sometimes. When she comes in from the rain, for example, we’ll ask her to lay down so we can dry her paws and she wanders off, “Hmmm? Were you talking to me?” She’s smart enough to know what we’re saying, she just chooses not to listen.

Indy came to us from a loving family that simply couldn’t keep him due to circumstances beyond their control, and honestly that was our lucky day.

While many of the memories are still painful, I don’t regret a single moment with Indy. Still, it will be nice, in time, when I can think of my sweet little guy without so much sadness, even though I know a little will always linger. Still, that seems fitting.

Thanks, WB. I know you lost a loyal friend, yourself, this past spring. I remember reading about your lovely Mars and crying. Their love and companionship are boundless, and while it’s difficult to say goodbye, it’s worth every second for the joy they bring to our lives.

Goodbye Indy. Thanks for taking care of my friend Mickey. She’s pretty special and deserved your adoration. I never met you, but Mickey let so many of us meet you virtually, that I loved you too. You remind me of my own old boy, “Buddy”. He’s still with us but I know that we don’t have much longer with him.

Sooo beautiful… he was so lucky to have you in his life, always remember that.

I still have my Zak’s dog bed, and bowl, and collar and toys strewn around this house he never even lived in – and it’s been almost 10 years since he left. The impression they make and the memories they leave behind never leave – and that’s the best blessing. You have memorialized him wonderfully – thanks so much for sharing – I wish I would have known him, but feel I almost did!

Andy, thanks so much. Your Zak was lucky, too – I can tell, both from your comments and from knowing you. They definitely leave their marks in our hearts, and while it’s sad, you’re right that it’s also reassuring knowing that they’ll always be with us. Now we just have to invite you over to meet Sophie dog… 🙂 Hugs, my friend.

Oh Mickey! I am crying my face off here! I never met Indy, however I had the privilege to witness how much love you gave to Sophie for the years that I lived next door to you and Juan. I know that if you even remotely gave as much love and affection (and I know you did) to Indy he was a truly blessed dog. Your tribute is beautiful and moving.

Thanks so much, Shawna. You would’ve loved Indy dog – he was quite the charmer. Even Sophie misses him, and you know how rare THAT is (Sammy is one of only two dogs Sophie ever really adored). I’m sorry that it made you cry, but I really wanted to share my memories of our sweet guy. Hugs to you.

You are so strong to even be thinking about how you could bring love to another dog, and this is so beautiful. When we were kids we had a dog that died under someone else’s care when we were on vacation. And I really believe that because we couldn’t be with Lucky at the end that this is why I haven’t been able to get a pet as an adult. Feels nuts. But there it is. My brother has a dog named Ender who I love to bits though. You’re so right about not getting over it – he deserves to be remembered. He was here and was loved and who says we’re supposed to find something that plugs up that hole? It’s part of our experience as humans, I think, that if we touch someone or someone touches us, there’s an imprint. Some scientists are trying to figure out now if there’s a Physical imprint left where there’s Literally a piece of another person we’ve had even the simplest physical bond with, like a handshake. Not that it’s not as real if they don’t. Just that it makes the idea seem less crazy.

Tinu, I don’t think it’s nuts at all. We all grieve in different ways – to me there isn’t a right or wrong, there is simply what works best for you. If the times comes for you to get another dog, you will. Until then, you get to love Ender.

I’m scientific-reason girl, but even I’m willing to say that I’m willing to believe that we all touch each other’s lives – however briefly – and leave some kind of mark whether science can prove it or not. That’s just one reason we have to be so very careful with our words and actions, when we can. I guess that’s another thing we can learn from Indy dog.

Mickey:
I found you by way of Danny Brown sharing your story on Facebook. What a beautiful tribute to your beloved Indy. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to get through it all, as the tears welled up in my eyes. I could relate to each and every detail — the adoring nicknames, the loving eyes and gentle spirit you describe are traits that I see in our three dogs every day. I can’t imagine a life without them. They bring so much joy to our lives.

I truly believe we’ll see our beloved pets again someday, and I am sure that Indy will watch over your family until then.

Thanks for the reminder to hug those we love just a bit tighter, as we never know much time we have.

Traci, thanks so much. I like to think that Indy is watching over us – our little furry guardian – as long as he’s having fun, too. 🙂

I found a quote last week from Brian Andreas: “Time stands still best in moments that look suspiciously like ordinary life.” It was a great reminder to live in the moment and to appreciate what we have (and who we have) as much as possible. To put aside worries and daily dramas and to-do lists and just be thankful. It’s difficult to do, but so important. And, for me, it’ll take a lot of practice before I get it right.

My best to you and your three pups – you know, I’m sure, how very lucky all of you are to have each other.

“We could all learn a lot from Indy dog. Keep wagging until the very end. Be happy. Live in the moment. Give love with no strings attached. Beoptimistic. Try new things. Have fun. Race around the yard. Be open to love, because you never know where you’re going to find it.”

I’ll give my Yorkie Cocoa a few extra belly rubs today! You really wrote a fantastic tribute to Indy – I feel like I knew him.

Indy dog would be delighted to think that he helped Cocoa get extra belly rubs today (and he’d say, keep ’em coming!). I feel like I’ve got a lot to learn from Indy (and from Sophie dog), if only I’m wise and brave enough to do it. Thanks so much, Candice.

I don’t know you and I never met Indy, yet somehow I know you and somehow I’ve met Indy–through your loving and beautiful words and in my own dogs (past and present). My heart sings for your time with Indy and breaks for your loss. Our fur-babies teach us so much about acceptance, living in the moment, and real love. Thank you for having the courage to share Indy with us all. May you find peace in the knowledge that Indy’s legacy is alive and has touched us all.

Mickey, I am SO sorry for the loss of Indy, Adventure Dog. When dog/animal lovers read these heart wrenching stories of unconditional love between a pet and it’s owner, we react on a visceral level…I could barely get through this post. I can’t imagine the pain and sadness you are going through right now. I deeply dread the day that one of my many furry family will leave me. Like a child, I want them to live forever…Your awareness that the pain and grief helps you to keep Indy in the forefront of your memory is precious. There WILL never be another Indy…and in a weird way, that’s perfect. He will live in your hearts as Indy, Adventure Dog forever.
Thank you for sharing such a beautiful story.
Claudia

Claudia, you put it so perfectly – like a child, we DO want them to live forever. As I mentioned elsewhere, I typically have a hard time reading posts like this, and every time I did I’d end up bawling and hugging and petting and kissing my poor, confused dogs.

But it was important to me to get down in words, as best as I could, what I wanted to remember about Indy dog. I’d even considered leaving out the sad parts, but that seemed disloyal, somehow – he endured a lot, and I owed it to him to remember that, too.

My husband is the one who first said we have to keep on wagging, because THAT, more than anything, is what Indy was about. Sometimes it’s hard, though.

You know how hard it is to talk when you have a lump in your throat… I am having difficulty even writing… the tears in my eyes make it hard to see. This is a precious farewell to Indy dog, and a wonderful testament to the love between you all.
Be in peace and love always Mickey. I hope they fill your life as you do ours.

Thanks so much, Richard. It was difficult to write, but in a strange way it really helped me process everything. I think part of me was so worried that I’d forget something about Indy – and there are so many things I left out, like how he’d “help” me workout, for instance (he was amazing at reverse crunches) – that once I’d gotten it all down it was a strange kind of relief.

Dogs are wonderful, and they don’t live long enough, I found your blog through Rich, amazing, since he’s not a dog person, and it moved him so much! I had a dog, Frost, who I miss also, he lived to be 9, they give you unconditional love, something we all need. Now, since its been awhile, I will be forever greatful to the happiness he brought to me and my family, and I’m sure you’ll feel the same about Indy.

Thanks, Sandra, for stopping by and for sharing your memories of Frost. I am ridiculously grateful for the happiness Indy brought to our lives already, but the pain of losing him is still pretty fresh. I wholeheartedly agree – the unconditional love of a dog (or cat) is something you have to experience to believe or understand.

You never know what kind of effect a dog has on you life until you have one of your own. I tell Jack Bauer, all the time, it’s unnatural for a human being to love an animal as much as I love him. I am so sorry for your loss, Mickey. My heart feels crushed for you.

You summed it up perfectly, Gini. It’s impossible to describe the effect they have on you – and even then, some folks get it, others don’t.

I could never even read posts like this without crying – I’d always put myself in the place of the person writing and think, “Oh, man, that day better NEVER come.” But it did, and you keep breathing, and you grieve and celebrate and remember.

Thanks so much for sharing the post, Gini. It makes me smile to think of other folks learning about our Indy dog.

A friend said just the other day that she couldn’t figure out why dogs (and cats) have such short life spans, comparatively speaking. One idea she had was that it allows us to welcome many different dogs into our lives. While it feels weird to think of getting another dog – and I know no dog will replace Indy dog – there really are so many out there just looking for a little love and affection. And they deserve it just as much as our Indy did.

I’m so sorry for your loss, too – in some ways time makes it easier, I suppose, but in others they’ll always be with us. And I think that’s a good thing.

Beautifully written. I knew I would cry just from reading the headline but it was worth it. It was a lovely tribute to a wonderful dog. It brought back lovely memories of my own well remembered best friends.

Pat, thanks so much for your kind words. It’s funny, I have such a hard time reading similar posts – normally I’m crying like a baby – but I gained a completely different perspective when it came time to write this. It helped me, thinking that I was sharing sweet Indy dog with others who could help me celebrate and remember him.

Skylar is getting her money’s worth from the bribe. Whatever she wants. And she has me sleeping on the Aero bed so she can go out when she needs to at night… Like Indy, she’s been a best bud and earned the special attention. Like you, we’ll do the right thing when the time comes.

Thanks from me and Skylar… When the time comes she and Indy will meet…